


Ashes of Delphi

by dragonofdispair



Series: Vampiric Codex [8]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Vampires, Angst, Blood Drinking, Continuity What Continuity, Dark Fantasy, Dhampir!Ambulon, Gen, Horror, Hostage Situations, PTSD symptoms, Vampire!Deadlock, Vampires, dark fantasy edging into horror, is that a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 04:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16233836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: Vampires stalk Cybertron’s nights, taking, killing, and eating what they will. And on one especially dark night, First Aid has a too-close brush with a monster from Ratchet’s past…





	Ashes of Delphi

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Dark fantasy, vampires, blood drinking, scary hostage situation, and at _least_ one character with severe ptsd, who does have a (not very detailed) flashback of a traumatic event.
> 
> Beta’d by Rizobact

_You won't escape_  
_All your nightmares will break free ~♪_  
          ~ Nemesea, [In Control](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2pLYnwXM9n8)

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# Part One - First Aid

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Sunrise, sunrise, sunrise… First Aid found himself chanting it silently to himself as he crouched in the destroyed nurses station in the equally ruined emergency room of what had once been a state of the art trauma ward. Everyone else — patient and doctor alike — had been moved deeper into the hospital for protection. The Decepticon bombs had blown out one wall of the hospital, which had destroyed the threshold. So far, no roaming vampires had taken advantage of the weakness. Which meant they weren’t just hunting tonight, but _taking_ mechs back to their lairs. No one knew what the Decepticons took mechs for. To be turned, to be fed to vampires who didn’t participate in the raid, to be farmed… whatever they needed mechs for, they needed healthy ones.

It wasn’t a guarantee they were safe. At any moment a vampire could wander in, intending to glut himself on the sick and injured and the “helpless” medics attending them.

Trembling, First Aid checked his gun again. If one did come, he’d find First Aid wasn’t _entirely_ helpless. And he wore a blessed emblem on a chain around his neck, if one tried going for his throat. It would hopefully buy him a few extra nanokliks to shoot the fragger. It was almost sunrise though, they only needed to go overlooked for another joor…

Two figures staggered in through the wall. First Aid saw red optics, claws, and he raised the gun to fire.

He got one shot off as the two figures dove to either side, evading. One — First Aid noted purple paint and a helicopter’s blades — stayed where he was, so he tracked the faster moving, circling figure — soot black and flashing fangs. First Aid shot again, and saw the bullet graze the creature’s side.

He didn’t get a third.

The vampire lunged, closing the distance in the time it took for First Aid to pull the trigger, knocking the gun up to shoot harmlessly into the ceiling. He practically shouted Primus’ name, invoking the Creator for protection as he felt hot air and _teeth_ on his primary energon line.

Instead of making the creature flinch, pull away, cry out in pain, he only chuckled. “That doesn’t work on me, sweetspark.” He licked the fuel lines and First Aid whimpered. “You’re in luck though. I’ve got a better use for you right now than food.”

He squeezed First Aid’s hand until the gun fell to the ground and he kicked it away, toward his companion, who scooped it up, and then the medic found himself being dragged like newly built cybercat over to him as well.

Now, closer, he could see why this one hadn’t helped take him down: his plating was burned and scorched, a good swath of his damaged internals were exposed, letting the nurse see the sparks and torn myomer beneath.

“We can do this one of two ways,” the darker one said silkily. “I can kill you, and the rest of the staff, and we can eat everything in this building until he’s gotten enough blood to heal. Or you can do everything I tell you to, and we can leave your not-so-pretty little hospital basically intact.”

“W-what do you need?” First Aid _hated_ that he was giving in so quickly, so easily. The vampire was lying, he had to be. Vampires _lied,_ everyone knew it, but if there was a _chance…_

“To start,” the vampire said smugly, “a dark room to wait out the day, and some repairs for my companion here. We’ll see how things go from there.”

“Alright.” First Aid literally shook as the vampire released him.

“Good. You carry him.”

Moving cautiously, First Aid moved to support the helicopter. Initial results from his diagnostic programming made him wonder how the vampire was still moving, but he didn’t question it yet. The two monsters passed off the gun again, keeping it out of First Aid’s reach. Now holding it, the dark vampire checked it and cocked it to fire with a competence that put First Aid’s trembling skill to shame. He grinned nastily, flashing his fangs.

First Aid thought frantically. He could put them in the trauma ward. The bombs had ripped through one wall of the hospital, exposing the rooms on that side to sunlight, but the hallway and the interior rooms would still be safe for his… Captors. Patients. He mapped out the ward and its tools and thought he’d be able to sneak a few seconds on the intercom to warn Pharma. Or, if they didn’t kill him, he could escape entirely when they went into torpor.

Then he could come back with help, and kill them while they slept, because there was no way they’d wait out the day so close to so many helpless victims and _not_ eat them all come sunset.

He half-carried the purple vampire to the hall, where there was a tipped over gurney. Before First Aid could wonder if he was allowed to put him down long enough to right it, the dark one stalked over and effortlessly picked it up and put it back on its wheels. He tested that it would roll, then looked expectantly at First Aid. The nurse eased the helicopter down on the berth. His plating itched with the black vampire’s gaze as he finally got a chance to check his new patient’s wounds beyond “severe”.

“What happened to you?” he murmured automatically.

The vampire chuckled weakly and spoke for the first time. “Dodged an Autobot light-canon right into the path of a seeker bombing run. The worst is probably that I’ve got shrapnel in my electrical systems…” He started listing off injuries, correctly according First Aid’s medical scans.

“You’re a doctor?” First Aid asked in surprise, wheeling the gurney into the lightless trauma bay. He’d never heard of a vampire doctor! The dark vampire flipped on the lights as he followed them inside, watching warily.

“Was,” the purple vampire admitted. “My accreditation’s a little expired. Was even before the breakout. Not to mention the—”

“Ambulon,” the dark vampire growled warningly.

“He’s going to have to know,” the purple vampire, Ambulon, said, while First Aid pulled a tool cart over, “or else he’ll kill me trying to treat me like a full vampire who can’t bleed to death. And then where will _you_ get your free repairs?”

The vampire growled, but stalked away, examining the walls, presumably looking for cracks or signs that First Aid had put them in a room that would leave them exposed to light when the sun came.

First Aid looked between him and the creature on the gurney. “‘Full’ vampire?” he finally asked, unsure if doing so would provoke violence.

Ambulon also glanced over at the black vampire before answering. “I was,” he admitted, “during the breakout. But afterwards some of us decided being basically immortal wasn’t enough; they needed to eliminate the torpid period and be able to walk in full sunlight too. Some experiments were conducted. Technically I was a success, but since I’m also not much more than a full mortal anymore either, I was deemed a failure and new avenues of experimentation were pursued. That means I’m going to need an energon drip during repairs — it won’t poison me — and you _can_ sedate me.”

“That’s—” horrible? Terrifying? Interesting? “Useful to know.” First Aid went to fetch the energon drip and a dose of sedative code. “And him?” he asked softly when he returned to Ambulon’s side. If both of them weren’t much more than mortal maybe he could sedate…

The… part vampire smiled, somewhere between knowing and vicious and just showing off his fangs, obviously catching on to First Aid’s thoughts. “Deadlock’s one-hundred percent vampire.”

With a crash that sent First Aid’s fuel pump hammering in his throat, Deadlock ripped away one of the electronic systems in the wall, throwing it to the ground with a snarl.

“I needed that,” First Aid scolded with a confidence he didn’t feel, while Deadlock stomped on the destroyed intercom. So much for calling for help before sunrise…

“Didn’t,” Deadlock asserted, opening a drawer and picking up a roll of first aid tape, tearing off a strip to layer onto the gunshot wound First Aid had inflicted on him, stopping the sluggish bleeding. “And I’ll kill you if you lie to me again. Get to work.”

First Aid got to work.

Repairing someone under duress… First Aid wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. Honestly it was crawling to the top of his list of worst experiences ever. Ambulon, fortunately, seemed to be built like a standard helicopter, with only a few idiosyncrasies due to the age of his frame, and he responded readily to the sedative. Except for one frightening klik right after First Aid administered the sedative where Deadlock came over and placed his clawed hand on Ambulon’s chest, then leaned down and licked him (as though checking that a sedative was _all_ First Aid had given him, part of the nurse’s mind gibbered), the vampire paced the room, but didn’t interfere. First Aid heard the door to the trauma bay open a few times, but he didn’t dare look up to see what he was doing. He didn’t come back dripping in energon, so First Aid had to believe he was keeping his word.

When First Aid finally came up for breath from the seemingly endless amounts of shrapnel that needed to be picked out, wires that needed to be resoldered, and other repairs Ambulon needed, Deadlock was on the floor leaning against the one of the double doors to the hall, red optics dim and frame still. Torpor. The sun must be up, and First Aid let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t an expert on vampires though, so he moved cautiously and quietly, in case Deadlock could still move, explode into violence, if threatened. He’d _heard_ that a vampire in torpor looked like a dead mechanism, but light still glowed softly in Deadlock’s optics, so he wasn’t sure if that story had been exaggerated at all. He sure _looked_ like he still had a good grip on First Aid’s gun!

Autopilot had him checking that Ambulon was resting well and that all his readings were normal, even though he wasn’t sure he knew what “normal” was for him, before he crept around Deadlock, easing the door open. Then he closed it equally carefully behind him.

He took a moment to look at the devastation left by the wall coming down. The emergency room was so much rubble, with bright yellow light streaming in from outside. Some of the trauma rooms were effectively gone as well. Looking at it now, it felt like pure luck the roof still stood over the hallway and the rest of the hospital. They’d evacuated this wing as soon as the dust had settled, placing everyone in the much more heavily shielded quarantine rooms deeper in the hospital. Then First Aid had picked up his gun to defend the no-longer vampire proof opening.

He grimaced under his facemask. And he’d done so well at that, hadn’t he?

He turned down the darkened hallway, headed toward the quarantine rooms. Some of the lights sputtered fitfully while others had been shattered completely by the concussive force of the blast. He was lucky the one inside the trauma bay still worked, or else he wouldn’t have been able to repair Ambulon, and gotten eaten… First Aid shivered. The only thing worse than dying from a vampire’s fangs would be _not_ dying. There were rumors that some Decepticons took the time and effort to turn Autobots.

Deeper inside, the lights still worked. He headed for the doctors’ lounge. The interior walls still stood strong, but First Aid saw cracked paint and had to avoid stepping on the glass from fallen picture frames.

Pharma was sound asleep, face down and drooling oral fluid on a couch in the doctor’s lounge. First Aid was tempted to see if he could convince the vending machine to give him anything, but the two vampires downstairs took precedence over his low fuel levels.

“Pharma?” he reached out and shook him gently.

“…st Aid? Go check on th’patients…” the jet muttered, rolling over so his wings draped off the edge of the couch, turning his back to the nurse.

First Aid sighed at being assigned another task, but it really was his job to check up on everyone and make sure they got their morning meals, so he didn’t complain. “I will. You need to get up and call Autobot High command, though.” He avoided Pharma’s wings to shake him again, on the shoulder. “We have a problem downstairs.”

“Don’t _have_ a downstairs anymore,” Pharma said crankily, still mostly asleep. “That’s th’problem.”

It was, but, “We have another problem.” He shook Pharma one more time, then dropped the (metaphorical) bomb. “There’s a couple of vampires lairing in one of the trauma rooms.”

“What?” The jet bolted awake so fast that First Aid nearly fell on his aft to avoid knocking their helms together. “You were supposed to keep them out!”

“I tried,” First Aid retorted sharply, then throttled himself back, reminding himself that the doctor probably hadn’t gotten any recharge last night either, otherwise he’d have never let himself be caught drooling on the couch. “I shot one of them, but not fatally, and he caught me.” His hand crept up to the holy emblem he still wore. “I don’t know how, but he didn’t flinch when I tried to drive him back.” Oh, his hand was shaking. “They’re in one of the intact trauma bays now, torpid. We need to call Autobot command. They’ll take care of them and evacuate everyone… This place isn’t safe anymore.”

Pharma looked around with a grimace. “I hate admitting it, but this place _is_ pretty bad off. Go get everyone breakfast, and I’ll make the call.”

First Aid _didn’t_ sag in relief. This whole ordeal was almost over.

“That’ll be kinda hard,” drawled a _terrifyingly familiar_ voice, as several pieces of equipment which _should_ have been on the hospital’s outer wall clattered to the floor, “without the building’s signal booster. Unless one of you’re hiding a satellite's com transmitters in your chassis somewhere,” the vampire, Deadlock, finished up with a knowing smirk.

First Aid shrieked and jumped backwards, all thoughts of the vending machine, of _safety,_ thoroughly banished. He crashed into a table, and chairs scattered everywhere as he fell to a heap on the floor. Pharma jumped too, reacting more to First Aid than to the vampire himself, thrusters automatically engaging to send him crashing over the couch and into the wall. The vampire was on him in a flash of dark plating, hoisting him up effortlessly and pinning him to the wall.

First Aid tried to crawl, edging out while the creature was engaged. The sound of the gun cocking was terrifyingly loud. He looked up into the huuuuge barrel. The vampire wasn’t even looking at him, but the weapon was as steady as a rock.

“Primus!” Pharma called out, much to Deadlock’s visible amusement. “Primus. _Primus._ PrimusPrimusPr— _urk!”_ The vampire leaned to put pressure on the jet’s throat.

“Quiet, doctor,” he crooned. “You,” the gun twitched, making First Aid twitch in response, “stand up and come over here where I can see you both.”

Fear and shame prickling at once again giving in so easily, First Aid pushed himself to his feet and obeyed. His legs felt like gelatin, and he leaned against the wall next to Pharma.

“Good mech,” the creature purred. Pharma was overheating with fear; First Aid could hear his fans working overtime, and realized his own weren’t any better. But instead of biting, Deadlock physically flipped Pharma over. The doctor cried out as his arms were pulled behind him in a way his frame really wasn’t meant to bend, then cuffed there with… First Aid recognized restraints, taken from the gurneys in the trauma wing, for combative patients. When Pharma was tied up to Deadlock’s liking, he righted the couch and dumped the doctor on it, who squawked. “Stay.” He turned back to First Aid. “Now, I heard something about checking up on the patients. Let’s go do that. Wouldn’t want anyone getting worried and trying to call for help, would we?”

First Aid would really like one of them to try calling for help right about now, but he shook his head in agreement. The gun twitched toward the door. Exchanging a fear-filled look with Pharma, First Aid obediently led the way out of the room.

He collected a cart from outside the hospital’s kitchen and started filling cubes. He didn’t know who was still here, or if anyone was supposed to be on a special recovery diet, so he picked up a variety of things. Under the circumstances — even without a vampire! — he thought he could be forgiven for not being perfect. Similarly, he grabbed an assortment of common medications, hoping he didn’t have to fetch anything exotic this cycle.

“Don’t forget to fuel yourself,” Deadlock purred silkily, and shuddering, First Aid poured himself a cube and emptied it into his intake.

Once the cart was full, he pushed it down toward the quarantine rooms.

Deadlock followed him, utterly silently. If it weren’t for the dark shadow he could see out of the corner of his optic band, he might have been tricked into thinking the vampire had left. The halls were brightly lit — and sunless, First Aid realized. He had no idea why the creature wasn’t torpid, but they’d moved everyone away from the exterior of the building, to shelter them from the bombs and broken glass.

“Try not to look so terrified,” the vampire said, not-quite-mockingly. “It’s been a stressful night, but it’s over, yeah?” Gulping, First Aid nodded. “Good. And remember that I will _hear you_ if you try to say anything else. So don’t, and I won’t have any reason to do anything but wait by the door like a good little bodyguard, got it?”

“Got it,” First Aid whispered. The vampire smiled, flashing his long fangs, and opened the first door so the nurse could push the cart through easily. There was seven mechs crammed into a room that should have only held one.

As promised, Deadlock did stay by the door, angled slightly away from the others in the room so his red optics weren’t as obvious. On autopilot, First Aid wheeled the cart through the room, checking patient charts and distributing fuel and medicines. To his relief no one was feeling particularly chatty. Some of the more awake mechs expressed sympathy for how stressed he looked. Just like Deadlock had told him to, he responded with his relief that the night was over. Hopefully you’ll all be evacuated to someplace else this day cycle. Rest well. You too doc. Not a doctor… After only a few near verbatim repeats, First Aid was almost glad to wheel the cart back into the hall; Deadlock closed the door behind them.

They repeated the whole thing at the next room, and the next four, with little variation. At each door, First Aid hesitated, worried that the sight or scent or something of being so close to so many injured mechs would provoke the vampire into going berserk or into a feeding frenzy or something. If he did, there was nothing the nurse could do to stop him! But if anything, he seemed disinterested in the prone and supine mechs, focusing all his attention on First Aid.

“What now?” First Aid asked when they were done, fearing the answer.

“When will Ambulon need another fuel drip?”

First Aid almost stumbled at that, and caught himself on the handle of the cart. “Um… not for a couple of joors, unless,” he added quickly, “he burns through his fuel abnormally fast. The sedative code should wear off soon though.”

“We’ll go check on him.” He pushed the cart; it rolled away and crashed into the wall, but didn’t fall over.

First Aid nodded.

Ambulon, the “part” vampire, was doing well. He was coming up from sedation nicely, and his drip was, if anything, being absorbed slower than it would by a normal mech. As far as First Aid was concerned, he would recover well. His armor needed to be replaced, but that was a minor thing compared to the internal injuries First Aid had fixed, and he said as much.

Ambulon nodded, then looked past the nurse to the lurking vampire. Something passed between them, and he looked back to First Aid. “Thank you for your help, doctor.”

“Nurse,” First Aid corrected. “I’m training to be a doctor.”

“I’d say you’re well on your way,” and despite the situation, First Aid felt a spark of pride.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Deadlock’s chuckle sent ice skittering down First Aid’s spinal struts. “Making friends?”

“Should try it sometime,” Ambulon snapped back, and First Aid braced himself for an explosion of violence.

“Over here, _nurse,”_ the vampire growled, and with a squeak, First Aid obeyed. Almost absently, Deadlock used another scavenged set of restraints to lock his hands together though the door’s handle. “Stay.”

“Staying!” As if he had any choice!

He watched Deadlock stalk over to the gurney and half climb onto it. He heard the murmur of voices, and he turned off his optic band to try and focus on what they were saying. They were still speaking too low to hear and First Aid could only make out a few words. “…repairs… can’t… vengeance… fuel… _mine.”_

A gasp made First Aid’s optics flare back to full brightness. He jerked, calling out wordlessly, as Deadlock’s fangs came free of Ambulon’s neck. He glared balefully at First Aid, but turned his attention back to Ambulon. He nudged their helms together, and the vampire drew a length of first aid tape — First Aid didn’t even realize he’d kept that — and covered the wound neatly. They murmured to each other again, and then Deadlock climbed off of the gurney, leaving Ambulon behind.

“Did you—?” First Aid’s voice shook as the vampire stalked back over to him. He couldn’t even finish the question.

“Feeding off him would be useless,” the creature answered, releasing First Aid’s wrists from the restraints.

 _Then why did you bite him?_ He couldn’t even say the words. Vampires were monsters! It wasn’t like First Aid needed _proof!_ He wanted to go check on Ambulon, to make sure he was alright — though he wasn’t sure _why_ given how he was simultaneously hoping the Autobots figured out they were in trouble and came to kill both of them — but Deadlock dragged him out into the hall.

“Come on. We’re going…” First Aid saw him run his tongue over his teeth. He tried not to shake. He could guess what now— “Decontamination shower,” the vampire said, like he wasn’t quite sure what the words were.

“What?” First Aid stumbled again.

“That’s where we’re going,” Deadlock said decisively.

The nurse shook a little. He was worried, for himself, for Pharma, for… everyone. “Alright. This way.” He thought about trying to lead the vampire to one of the showers nearer the outside of the building, to lead him through a patch of sunlight. He didn’t think the vampire would be dumb enough to actually step _into_ the sun, but maybe First Aid could get away… but Deadlock still had the gun, and very obviously knew how to use it. And even if _First Aid_ managed to escape that way, what about Pharma? The patients? Deadlock would just eat them…

So he led Deadlock to the decontamination shower closest to the quarantine ward, which also happened to be the biggest. The vampire paced the edge of the room, while First Aid watched warily. Again he thought about running for it, but then the creature’s red optics snapped back to First Aid, as though he’d heard the thought.

“This one.” Deadlock subspaced the gun. His limbs on the verge of locking up, First Aid followed the vampire into the cleaning stall. Where they… looked at each other expectantly. “Well?” he growled after a moment. “Get on with it!”

“I don’t know what you want?” First Aid yelped, cringing back.

Deadlock drew up short. He growled, and shied away confusedly.

“You’re supposed to have a… a cloth,” he said slowly, as though he wasn’t certain the words were the right ones. “I want a bath.” _That_ statement was firm, if somewhat bemused.

“A bath? Icandothat,” First Aid blurted out when that baleful red gaze turned on him with a threatening snarl. “Just let me go get a sponge…” Deadlock’s growl followed him all the way to the shelf and back. Again, First Aid considered running, but he slipped back into the shower stall with the expectant monster, this time with a sponge, a brush, and a microfiber polishing cloth.

To his surprise, Deadlock went to his knees as the spray of acetone came on. Immediately, black rivulets of liquid started running off of what the nurse was realising was _very dirty_ plating.

“Where do you want me to start?” he asked, not quite brave enough to just reach over and begin scrubbing.

“Head—helm,” Deadlock said uncertainty. “Teeth.”

“Your teeth?” _He wanted him to wash his teeth!?_

“Yeah. Last thing I ate was probably a rust infested turborat,” he said, seemingly automatically. The words sounded different, like he was repeating someone and imitating a different accent. First Aid didn’t ask why eating rusted turborats was problematic. It didn’t sound pleasant, even above and beyond the idea of eating _any living thing._ Deadlock growled as the nurse hesitated again, and he shoved his reluctance to get _closer_ to the vampire’s mouth aside to join the gibbering part of his mind that kept insisting he needed to _run, run now!_

He reached into the vampire’s mouth.

He must have blanked out a little bit, because the next thing he remembered was rinsing the blackened sponge in the clean stream of acetone, and pressing it back to the vampire’s shoulder to continue scrubbing away the loosened grime. His helm was clean, gleaming in the harsh hospital lighting. Deadlock was _white_ underneath a layer of grime so thick First Aid had thought it to be paint.

He heard a strange rumbling sound from the vampire’s engine, and he froze until he figured out that it was a _pleased_ sound.

First Aid took a deep breath into his cooling system. Okay. He could do this. Just scrub the vampire, distract him until… there his plan failed. Hopefully Pharma would wiggle free and escape, retrieving help.

Inch by inch, he scraped and scrubbed the caked-on filth from the vampire’s armor, while the rivulets of acetone running off his frame stayed almost pure black. Deadlock continued to make that strange rumbling sound that was far too much like a growl, and no matter how many times he reminded himself that it was _probably_ a pleased sound, First Aid continued to flinch every time the soft growl crested.

He didn’t dare to mechhandle Deadlock the way he would when cleaning down a patient. Fortunately he didn’t have to. As the grime came free, revealing the shining plating beneath, Deadlock moved himself, in a sequence that seemed automatic and familiar. Everytime he moved, First Aid contemplated the door, but he continued to shove the gibbering part of his processor to the background. He wouldn’t make it to the door.

Finally the last of the grime came free from Deadlock’s back. The rivulets of acetone coming off his frame were running mostly clear as well. Still, First Aid didn’t dare call a hal—

“Done,” Deadlock announced, turning off the shower spray.

“Now what?” The lack of Autobot rescue force so far kind of hinted that Pharma was still tied up on the couch.

“Now I’m hungry.” First Aid squeaked and backed up, but the vampire lunged, catching his wrist in an iron grip. “Open this,” he felt claws on his wrist armor, “or I’ll—”

First Aid must have blanked again, because a few nanokliks later, he realized he was on the floor, leaning against the shower tiles. The armor over the fuel lines in his wrist was open, and he could feel the creature’s hot breath against the myomer substructures. Panicked instinct had him resuming his struggles, trying to pull away. He didn’t want to die! “Please no,” he begged, though he knew, _knew,_ it wouldn’t deter the monster.

“Don’t worry,” the creature murmured. “I’ll make this quick.”

 _Pain!_ First Aid cried out as teeth slid into the fuel line. It hurt. It hurt so much—

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# Part Two - Ratchet

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“…I passed out at that point,” First Aid finished up his report. “I didn’t wake up until the Wreckers had secured the grounds. They found me in a supply closet, on an extra gurney. Pharma was still tied up on the couch in the doctor’s lounge. Deadlock had fed on him too.”

“Yes,” Autobot Chief Medical Officer Ratchet rubbed the red decorative crest on his forehelm. Pharma’s version of events had been almost useless, both because he’d spent most of his captivity tied up in the doctor’s lounge, but also because he’d spent much of his tale trying to blame the whole debacle on First Aid. The only thing in Pharma’s version that wasn’t in greater detail in First Aid’s was that Deadlock had untied Pharma long enough to coerce some repairs out of him before biting him, then tied him back up and left him. The nurse’s version of events was heavily colored by terror, to the point that he admitted his memory had fritzed near the end, but he was putting no deliberate spin on his words. Personally, Ratchet thought First Aid shouldn’t have been assigned to guarding the open wall alone, especially given his lack of combat training, and he would make a note of that in Pharma’s file. “I heard about that. Both of you are lucky to be alive.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Ratchet sighed. Poor kid. He absolutely did not deserve this, and he hoped this experience didn’t scare him off of becoming a doctor. They needed more of those. “You did the right thing,” he assured, because it seemed like the mech needed to hear it. “Attacking him would have just gotten every single one of you killed. Cooperating,” somehow, inexplicably, “saved every single one of you. Congratulations. You’re a hero.”

First Aid perked up. “Thank you, sir,” he said much more genuinely, then began to fidget.

“What is it?” Ratchet _didn’t snap_ impatiently.

“Pharma and me… we aren’t going to, to _turn_ are we?”

Ratchet didn’t quite manage to keep his optics from rolling. They’d done their best to disseminate everything they could on vampires, separating fact from myth from half-truths, but some things — fears and romantic tropes both — persisted. “It takes more than a bite to turn a mech. If Dea— if he’d turned you, you would have been vampires when the Wreckers found you. He just fed and moved on.”

He’d just fed and moved on. Ratchet glared down at his hand until it stopped shaking. He couldn’t deal with that, not until First Aid was gone. Maybe, if he was honest with himself, not even then.

“Anything else?” he asked.

First Aid hesitated, but forged on. “Ambulon said they were doing experiments, to get rid of their daytime vulnerabilities. Is that why—”

“No,” Ratchet interrupted. He very deliberately laid his hands out flat on his desk, to keep them from shaking or clenching so hard he injured himself. “It means he’s not one of the escaped gladiators, that he was created and lived under the plate before this mess started. That group of vampires never went into torpor, and since the plates fell, we’ve seen them occasionally among the Decepticon ranks.” Mostly by vampire hunters who made forays under the remaining plates to attack the “helpless” vampires in their lairs, only to find a handful were very much awake, and tasked with guarding their torpid comrades. No one knew for sure how they’d gone from free and attacking anything that didn’t belong in their territories, to active — and _sane_ — members of the Decepticons, but Ratchet could very easily guess.

Trapped. The wretched, feral creatures would hardly have been able to resist walking into the traps if they were laid with the right bait. Even before the chaos and disruption of the plates falling, Ratchet had known the Decepticons were laying such traps, with varying degrees of success, depending on the ferals’ individual ability to recognize them as dangerous. That was why—

Ratchet deleted the thought. Later. He could deal with that later. They hadn’t _known,_ or even _guessed,_ that Deadlock was a slum vampire. Most of those in the Decepticon ranks were not allowed to make the trip to the surface, and Deadlock had been seen and identified above ground more than once. He just hadn’t been one of the gladiators, or one of the known few vampires who’d lived free above the plate before the break out. A newly turned — and all the more vicious for it — minion had been everyone’s best guess; it wasn’t like there weren’t enough of _those_ running around. “We’ve found, however,” he continued evenly, answering First Aid’s questions, “that slum vampires are more vulnerable to damage from sunlight.”

“So if I _had_ tried leading him into sunlight…”

“He wouldn’t have gone,” Ratchet nipped off that source of guilt immediately, “and then he would have turned on you, eating every one of you, for the offense. You survived. Pharma survived. Your patients survived. By that measure, _you did the right thing.”_

Of course if the Wreckers had arrived to find nothing but a massacre of drained corpses, and Perceptor had determined that First Aid had attacked the vampires, only to fail, and the creatures had gone on to kill and eat everyone, it still would have been Ratchet’s — and everyone else’s — judgement that he had done the right thing. No-win situations were called “no-win” for a _reason._ But martyrs didn’t feel guilt for fragging up, while survivors had to live with their _what ifs._

There were going to be people who told First Aid he should have attacked anyway, but Ratchet would much rather have an alive — if somewhat traumatized — medical staff, than a pile of corpses.

“Thank you, sir,” the nurse repeated.

“Anything else?” It wasn’t fair to First Aid at all, but he wanted this conversation to be over. His palms were starting to hurt where he’d pressed them to the desk. First Aid shook his head. “I’m assigning you to Ironhide’s combat training course and putting you through the introductory course on vampires for prospective hunters,” not because he thought First Aid would want to be one of those foolhardy, _suicidal_ sparks that actually ventured beneath the plate, but because he thought knowing more about the enemy would help him process what had happened, “before you’re reassigned to another post. In the meantime you’ll be serving part time shifts here, in Iacon’s main hospital. I suggest you use the time to see one of the shrinks and talk about what happened.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

The door closed behind him and Ratchet’s shoulders sagged, and his fists clenched until he heard the armor creak. He lowered his head to the desk and let himself shake.

A vampire. A _slum vampire,_ one with a very specific set of rituals regarding hospitals and patients and medics. Some of the Autobot vampires had had some aspects of that ritual instilled in them — leave the patients alone, don’t even look at them, clean the teeth before feeding, kneel to get clean, kneel to bite, always bite the wrist — Ratchet made sure of it. But there were parts of his original ritual Ratchet had never repeated with another vampire. Medical staff were _never_ food for Autobot vampires, anymore than their patients were, and Deadlock’s waltz of bath - bite - repairs was _too_ specific to have come about by chance.

He’d repeated Ratchet’s line about rust infested turborats to First Aid.

Ratchet’s engine coughed. _Drift._

Grief and guilt and a dull sort of confused shock swamped him. The cycle the plates had dropped flashed behind his optics. The rush to get as many mechs evacuated as he could… the _utter terror_ of seeing the plate detach with himself still underneath it. It had fallen in a sort of slow motion, while Ratchet drove through air suddenly turned to molten glass, engine straining with effort, redlining and still not fast enough, as more and more light had flooded what should have been absolute darkness.

Ratchet had had to physically push slum dwellers who’d stopped to marvel at the sunlight they’d never seen, unable to comprehend the enormity of the object — the entire sky, to them — falling down on them.

And the crash when the first one had hit the ground… It was too loud, too all-encompassing to have even been called a sound. Or a shockwave, even. There were no words, not then, and not now as Ratchet relived the entire event. Drift… oh, _Drift…_

He didn’t even _like_ Drift.

But Ratchet had lost his entire life that cycle, and the vampire had been part of that life. Part of that loss. It hadn’t even occurred to him Drift could have survived.

He should have looked for him…

But there hadn’t been time for grief, hadn’t been time for all the injured and dead, much less for wasting time looking for one, certainly dead, monster. Not to mention it would have been suicidal. Drift’s territory had been (somewhat) safe because of _Drift;_ searching under the plates would have gotten Ratchet, or anyone else along for the ride, very messily dead. There was nothing he could have done, but that knowledge didn’t shake the feeling that he _should have._ It was one thing to comfort himself with his rationalizations when Drift was dead, but now…

Drift was alive. Alive and a particularly vicious example of a Decepticon, and it was much, _much_ harder to justify not searching for him back then.

Because the slum vampires were monsters, but innocent ones. Drift hadn’t been able help being what he was. Now… now Ratchet didn’t know _what_ Drift, Deadlock was. He could easily guess what had happened after the plates fell. Without a territory, without _Ratchet,_ the vampire would have fallen quickly back into the mindset of a starving feral. He probably had retained the sense that the traps were dangerous for a long time, but with no territory, no safe resting spot or steady source of fuel, he would have become desperate enough to take the bait.

And then… Did he remember Ratchet at all, or had his most recent stint as a feral obliterated those memories like his older ones? Had Drift been caught and shaped into Deadlock, completely subsumed by Deadlock’s dark pleasures, by another’s will, or his own desperation? Had he had a _choice?_

Did it matter?

Because Drift was still effectively gone. He remembered the rituals Ratchet had taught him, but he was still _Deadlock,_ a Decepticon. A killer. The enemy. And Ratchet had no business grieving, _mourning_ him, wasting his _what ifs_ on him, when there was so much suffering here and now for _mortal mechs._

With that reminder, Ratchet forced himself to stop shaking and very deliberately relaxed his hands at his sides as he stood. As chief medical officer, he had one more thing he needed to deal with before he could write up his final report.

He had to bully his way past Jazz and his little spec-ops minions, and physically throw Perceptor out of the room, but finally he was alone with Ambulon.

The “part” vampire was chained to his medical berth. Ratchet buried his emotions and checked the injuries — severe, but his prognosis was good. He even seemed to be healing faster than a normal mech would from the same injury. Ratchet noted it on his chart, mentioning that he may have retained some measure of his vampiric healing.

“You could just _ask_ what’s different,” the helicopter growled crankily.

Ratchet _could_ just leave this to Jazz and Perceptor. The two of them were perfectly capable of interrogating and unraveling this scientific mystery, but some final, unshriveled shred of his tattered medical ethics wouldn’t let his patient’s care suffer for such insignificant things as insight into their enemy.

Still… “Until we understand why your comrade left you behind, we can’t take anything you say at face value,” he gave the stock answer as he checked the mech’s fuel drip. The records they still had of who had been kept in the gladiators’ cages did mention an Ambulon, a vampire, who was very obviously not a true vampire any longer.

Ratchet didn’t miss how the mech’s optics flicked to the room’s security camera before he answered. Otherwise he might have believed the bitter words. “He left me because I was becoming a liability. I’m a target under normal circumstances, even if I am useful, but injured like this… I’m not even worth being kept around for _food.”_

What wouldn’t he say as long as they were being recorded?

The safe thing would be to let Jazz’s interrogators figure it out. To mention his suspicion to Jazz on his way out, and wash his hands of it. But this part-vampire had been with Deadlock — who was really Drift, and that knowledge still felt a little like being stabbed in the spark — and the last thing Deadlock had done was claim him, mark him, and Ratchet wanted answers.

So he finished up the check up, made his notes, and looked at Ambulon over the edge of his medical chart while he casually sent a signal that would override the camera, heat up the wiring, melt the insulation, and short the thing out. It exploded rather spectacularly.

“You have about two kliks to tell me what you don’t want on camera,” Ratchet hissed with narrowed optics, “or I’ll mention it to Jazz and let his interrogators dig it out of you.”

“I’m surprised I need to _tell_ you anything,” Ambulon practically hissed back. “Maybe you’d like to tell me why a _slum vampire_ refuses to wash up with anything but clean acetone.”

Rage and confusion and grief and guilt all twisted in Ratchet’s spark. His engine revved angrily. _“What?”_ the word was choked as much as it was snapped. Drift, he, what…

“I still have _some_ of my old senses.” The “part” vampire sniffed. “You’re marked, and those aren’t just feeding scars; he was fond of you.”

“Don’t _lie_ to me,” Ratchet growled, red creeping into his vision. Jazz hadn’t even barged in to interrupt, Prowl wasn’t muttering his dire predictions of treason, yet, and already Ratchet regretted this conversation. What did he think he’d _get_ out of a private conversation with Dr—Deadlock’s plaything? “He wanted to _own_ me; ‘fond’ had nothing to do with it. What I want to know is why he let you go.”

“Because I would have been killed if I’d stayed,” Ambulon answered, sulkily, like the vampire he was. “Injured like I am? I wasn’t lying: I’m a liability, and no amount of daytime vengeance would have changed the fact that I’d be dead.”

That was… was… “Impossible,” Ratchet scoffed. Vampires didn’t _care._ They didn’t _do_ selfless things, and Ratchet knew from First Aid’s report that the last thing Deadlock had done was claim Ambulon as his. That wasn’t the action of a vampire cutting himself free of some dead weight; that meant he intended to _keep_ the part-vampire as his own.

“I think I know more about vampiric affection than _you_ do,” Ambulon riposted, showing a brief flash of pointed canine teeth that weren’t quite long enough to be fangs.

Ratchet opened his mouth to respond, then stopped as the door _wooshed_ open behind him. He whirled on Jazz, transforming all his ire at Ambulon into annoyance at being interrupted. Vampires could smell lies. Hear them. But there were ways around that, and being _angry_ at the vampire you were lying to was one of the most foolproof, as long as you had reason for that anger anyway. “What?” he snapped. “We’re busy.”

Jazz gave Ratchet a charming grin that didn’t reveal the tips of his fangs, which if Ratchet hadn’t already been angry would have pushed his temper to the limit. Bad enough Jazz insisted on that blue visor to hide his optics! He beckoned the medic out into the hall and Ratchet stomped away from Ambulon. The door closed, blocking the vampiric medic from view. “Camera failed. You wouldn’t know anything ‘bout how that happened, would you? What’cha talking about?”

“We were going over his medical qualifications,” Ratchet lied effortlessly, though he was making it up on the spot. “And if you can’t keep your Primus-,” Jazz flinched, “-damned cameras in repair, that’s not _my_ fault.”

He glared at Jazz; Jazz didn’t-glare back. He wanted Ratchet to back down. He was always pushing for Ratchet to back down. But Ratchet had been dealing with vampires longer than Jazz had been one. The pest might take his orders from Prowl, but _Ratchet_ was the top vampire in the Autobot pack. Metaphorically.

“‘Kay doc,” Jazz lowered his gaze and turned his body subtly to the side. “I believe you. So,” he said brightly, this time showing off a bit of fang, placating Ratchet’s known preference that the vampiric Autobots not hide the sort of monsters they were. “His medical qualifications? Find out anything interesting?”

“I want him. Intact,” Ratchet hissed. Assuming Ambulon didn’t prove to be a danger to them all, he could use some help in Iacon Hospital’s vampire ward. He refused to think of any _other_ reasons he might want to talk to him again. “So he better be in one, single, _untraumatized_ piece when you and Perceptor are done with him.” Which would put severe limits on what sort of interrogation methods or scientific experiments could be run on him, but the medic didn’t care.

“Ratch—”

“One. Single. Untraumatized. Piece.”

They both fluffed their armor. Jazz’s insincere smile covered his fangs again while Ratchet glared.

Once again, it was the vampire who backed down. “‘Kay. We’ll be gentle. But I won’t guarantee we’ll release him to you. He’s a Decepticon.”

“So are you,” Ratchet retorted ruthlessly.

.

.

.

End

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a link to the [Vampiric Codex Official Timeline](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uS2EX-d3Npd00EkN2SxOa7010AUFPI0TVqiS2vbnsbQ/edit?usp=sharing).


End file.
